There is No E in Zombi Which Means There Can Be No You Or We

By Roxane Gay
October 1, 2010
[A Primer]
[Things Americans do not know about zombis:]
They
They
They
They
They
They

are not dead. They are near death. There s a difference.

are not imaginary.
do not eat human flesh.
cannot eat salt.
do not walk around with their arms and legs locked stiffly.
can be saved.

[How you pronounce zombi:]

Zaahhhhnnnnnn-Beee. You have to feel it in the roof your mouth, let it vibrate.
Say it fast.
The m

is silent. Sort of.

[How to make a zombi:]

You need a good reason, a very good reason.
You need a pufferfish, and a small sample of blood and hair from your chosen can
didate.
Instructions: Kill the pufferfish. Don t be squeamish. Extract the poison. Just fi
nd a way. Allow it to dry. Grind it with the blood and hair to create your coup
de poudre. A good chemist can help. Blow the powder into the candidate s face. Wai
t.
[A Love Story]
Micheline Brnard always loved Lionel Desormeaux. Their parents were friends thoug
h that bonhomie had not quite carried on to the children. Micheline and Lionel w
ent to primary and secondary school together, had known each other all their liv
es when Lionel looked upon Micheline he was always overcome with the vague feeling
he had seen her somewhere before while she was overcome with the precise knowle
dge that he was the man of her dreams. In truth, everyone loved Lionel Desormeau
x. He was tall and brown with high cheekbones and full lips. His body was perfec
tly muscled and after a long day of swimming in the ocean, he would emerge from
the salty water, glistening. Micheline would sit in a cabana, invisible. She wou
ld lick her lips and she would stare. She would think, Look at me, Lionel, but he
never did. When Lionel walked, there was an air about him. He moved slowly but w
ith deliberate steps and sometimes, when he walked, people swore they could hear
the bass of a deep drum. His mother, who loved her only boy more than any other
, always told him, Lionel, you are the son of L Ouverture. He believed her. He belie
ved everything his mother ever told him. Lionel always told his friends, My fathe
r freed our people. I am his greatest son.
In Port-au-Prince, there were too many women. Micheline knew competition for Lio
nel s attention was fierce. She was attractive, petite. She wore her thick hair in
a sensible bun. On weekends, she would let that hair down and when she walked b
y, men would shout, Quelle belle paire de jambes, what beautiful legs, and Micheli
ne would savor the thrilling taste of their attention. Most Friday nights, Miche
line and her friends would gather at Oasis, a popular nightclub on the edge of t
he Bel Air slum. She drank fruity drinks and smoked French cigarettes and wore s
kirts revealing just the right amount of leg. Lionel was always surrounded by a

mob of adoring women. He let them buy him rum and Cokes and always sat at the ce
nter of the room wearing his pressed linen slacks and dark tee shirts that showe
d off his perfect, chiseled arms. At the end of the night, he would select one w
oman to take home, bed her thoroughly, and wish her well the following morning.
The stone path to his front door was lined with the tears and soiled panties of
the women Lionel had sexed then scorned.
On her birthday, Micheline decided she would be the woman Lionel took home. She
wore a bright sundress, strapless. She dabbed perfume everywhere she wanted to f
eel Lionel s lips. She wore high heels so high her brother had to help her into th
e nightclub. When Lionel arrived to hold court, Micheline made sure she was clos
est. She smiled widely and angled her shoulders just so and leaned in so he coul
d see everything he wanted to see within her ample cleavage. At the end of the n
ight, Lionel nodded in her direction. He said, Tonight you will know the affectio
ns of L Ouverture s greatest son.
In Lionel s bed, Micheline fell deeper in love than she thought possible. Lionel k
nelt between her thighs, gently massaging her knees. He smiled luminously, casti
ng a bright shaft of light across her body. Micheline reached for Lionel, her ha
nds thrumming as she felt his skin. When he was inside her, she thought her hear
t might stop it seized so painfully. He whispered in her ear, his breath so hot
it blistered her. He said, Everything on this island is mine. You are mine. Michel
ine moaned. She said, I am your victory. He said, Yes, tonight you are. As he fucked
her, Micheline heard the bass of a deep drum.
The following morning, Lionel walked Micheline home. He kissed her chastely on t
he cheek. As he pulled away, Micheline grabbed his hand in hers, pressing a knuc
kle with her thumb. She said, I will come to you tonight. Lionel placed one finger
over her lips and shook his head.
Micheline was unable to rise from her bed for a long while. She could only remem
ber Lionel s touch, his words, how the inside of her body had molded itself to him
. Her parents sent for a doctor, then a priest, and finally a mambo which they w
ere hesitant to do because they were a good, Catholic family but the sight of th
eir youngest daughter lying in bed, perfectly still, not speaking, not eating, w
as too much to bear. The mambo sat on the edge of the bed and clucked. She held
Micheline s limp wrist. She said, Love, and Micheline nodded. The mambo shooed the g
irl s parents out of the room and they left, overjoyed that the child had finally
moved. The mambo leaned down, got so close, Micheline could feel the old woman s d
ry lips against her ear. When the mambo left, Micheline bathed, dabbed herself e
verywhere she wanted to feel Lionel s lips. She went to Oasis and found Lionel at
the center of the room holding a pale, young thing in his lap. Micheline pushed
the girl out of Lionel s lap and took her place. She said, Just one more night, and
Lionel remembered her dark moans and the strength of her thighs and how she look
ed at him like the conquering hero he knew himself to be.
They made love that night, and Micheline was possessed. She dug her fingernails
in his back until he bled. She locked her ankles in the small of Lionel s back, an
d sank her teeth into his strong shoulder. There were no sweet words between the
m. Micheline walked herself home before he woke. She went to the kitchen and fil
led a mortar and pestle with blood from beneath her fingernails and between her
teeth. She added a few strands of Lionel s hair and a powder the mambo had given h
er. She ground these things together and put the coup de poudre as it was called
into a silk sachet. She ran back to Lionel s, where he was still sleeping, opened
her sachet, paused. She traced the edge of his face, kissed his forehead, then
blew her precious powder into his face. Lionel coughed in his sleep, then stille
d. Micheline undressed and stretched herself along his body, sliding her arm ben
eath his. As his body grew cooler, she kissed the back of his neck.
They slept entwined for three days. Lionel s skin grew clammy and gray. His eyes h

ollowed. He began to smell like soil and salt wind. When Micheline woke, she whi
spered, Turn and look at me. Lionel slowly turned and stared at Micheline, his eye
s wide open, unblinking. She gasped at his appearance, how his body had changed.
She said, Touch me, and Lionel reached for her with a heavy hand, pawing at her u
ntil she said, Touch me gently. She said, Sit up. Lionel slowly sat up, listing from
side to side until Micheline steadied him. She kissed Lionel s thinned lips, his
fingertips. His cold body filled her with a sadness she could hardly bear. She s
aid, Smile, and his lips stretched tightly into something that resembled what she
knew of a smile. Micheline thought about the second silk sachet, the one hidden
beneath her pillow between the pages of her bible, the sachet with a powder cont
aining the power to make Lionel the man he once was tall, vibrant, the greatest so
n of L Ouverture, a man who filled the air with the bass of a deep drum when he wa
lked. She made herself forget about that power; instead, she would always rememb
er that man. She pressed her hand against the sharpness of Lionel s cheekbone. She
said, Love me.
G
Roxane Gay s writing appears or
ippi Review, Cream City Review,
s the co-editor of PANK and can
ection, Ayiti, will be released

is forthcoming in Mid-American Review, The Mississ

Annalemma, McSweeney s (online), and others. She i
be found online at roxanegay.com. Her first coll
in 2011.

Writer s Recommendations:
The Physics of Imaginary Objects by Tina May Hall. This stunning book will stay
with you for a very long time. Each story is exquisitely crafted and as soon as
you turn the last page, you will want to read the whole thing all over again.
If You Lived Here You d Already Be Home by John Jodzio. This collection is filled
with my kind of stories a little weird and magical and bittersweet. A lot of the c
haracters are lost or sad or really fucked up and dealing with rather impossible
circumstances but they are trying to reach for something bigger, something bett
er and watching Jodzio s characters as they stretch their arms outward is a real p
leasure.